


Violent Ideation

by outruntheavalanche



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Gen, Not!Fic, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, War, psychiatry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The world is at war.  Sylar is a psychopathic soldier who has taken to killing both enemy combatants</i> and <i>innocent civilians for sport.  Mohinder is a doctor assigned by the Company to contain and control him.  At least, that’s what Mohinder thinks.</i></p><p>Yeah, I didn't touch on any of this. Oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violent Ideation

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, this was looked over by the intrepid [**holdeverysong**](http://holdeverysong.livejournal.com/). Then I stuck it away in a metaphorical drawer for two years and forgot it existed.
> 
> Figured I might as well post it since I'm never going to finish it.

Mohinder strode purposefully into Bennet’s office, his footsteps clipped, angry. Bennet sat on the edge of his desk and his young daughter, Claire, was folded up in a battered armchair, arms clasped around her backpack.

“Dr. Suresh? Can this wait?” Bennet glanced briefly at his daughter and then back to Mohinder.

“No, Mr. Bennet, it cannot,” Mohinder spat, trying desperately to control his anger for the girl’s sake.

Bennet sighed and reached up, removing his horn-rimmed glasses. He nodded to Claire. “Go wait outside for me, Clairebear. This’ll only take a few minutes,” he promised, offering the girl a tight-lipped smile.

Claire returned it, slipping out of the chair and slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “Okay, Daddy. Dr. Suresh.” She offered Mohinder a stiff, formal nod and marched out of her father’s office.

Mohinder flinched reflexively at the slamming of the door and the fluttering of paper in the girl’s wake. He turned his eyes to Bennet, who had slid off the edge of his desk and was now pacing in front of it. “Mr. Bennet, I must object—”

“You don’t have a choice, Suresh,” Bennet interrupted, coming to a stop in front of Mohinder. Bennet put his hands on his hips and leveled him an icy glare. “You are the best equipped to deal with this——this patient.”

“He’s not a _patient_ ,” Mohinder snapped, recoiling from Bennet in disgust. “He’s a _monster_.”

“The White House has asked us to—”

“ _They_ just want to get inside his head, see what makes him tick,” Mohinder said, whirling away from Bennet in anger. “No, they want _me_ to get inside his head. I won’t do it, Bennet. I refuse to.”

Bennet sighed, allowing the anger to seep out of him until he was sagging back against the sharp corner of his desk. “Please, Dr. Suresh. You’re our last hope.”

“I am not trained to deal with—” Mohinder paused, wrinkling his nose in distaste, reformulating his response. “I treat damaged human beings, Bennet. Good people who have lost their way. _Not_ cold-blooded killers.”

Bennet sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “We have our orders, Dr. Suresh. What President Petrelli wants President Petrelli gets.”

Mohinder thinned his lips, nostrils flaring, but he refrained from lashing out verbally at Bennet. It was no use. He had no choice but to go along with this ludicrous plan of—of _what_? Rehabilitation? Mohinder bit back a laugh at the very thought. Certainly, rehabilitation was a possibility, but only if the subject _wanted_ to change his or her ways. Only if the subject had accepted responsibility for his or her actions. And even then, successful rehabilitation wasn’t a guarantee. It was merely a possibility.

Mohinder could not imagine Gabriel Gray— _Sylar_ —either wanting to change or accepting responsibility for the murders he had committed and the lives of the survivors he had forever altered.

-

Mohinder was well aware that the war had turned normal, ordinary men into monsters, had turned gentle souls into killing machines. The war had turned children into orphans, women into widows, men into widowers. Its suffocating grasp was inescapable.

The psychological effects the war had inflicted upon its victims did not, however, explain the man—and Mohinder used that term loosely—who was waiting in his cell for him. 

The man who called himself Sylar.

Mohinder opened the door to the tiny cell where Sylar was being detained and stepped in, shutting it gently behind him. The walls were a drab, dull brown, the color of fetid, stagnant water. A flickering light fixture hung from the low ceiling, casting the cell and its two inhabitants in a faint yellow glow. Behind Mohinder was a large pane of mirrored glass that concealed Bennet, and some of Mohinder’s colleagues.

Sylar sat patiently behind a sleek steel table, cuffed to a chair by both his wrists. His ankles were bound together with heavy chains.

“Mr. Gray,” Mohinder said, with a slight nod. He sat down and pulled out a manila folder.

Sylar regarded him coolly with impossibly dark eyes. “Sylar,” he said, his voice a low growl.

“What?” Mohinder looked up at his subject in surprise. 

He hadn’t been expecting the man to speak. Mohinder’s colleagues had related him account after account of the man’s stubborn silence, as he steadfastly refused to answer their questions. Mohinder had expected his meeting with Sylar would be no different, and Bennet would, hopefully, give him up as a lost cause.

“My name is Sylar.” He tugged at the bonds around his wrists, but it seemed to be more for show than an actual attempt at escape.

“All right, Mr. Gray,” Mohinder continued on, forcing a sunniness he wasn’t really feeling into his tone, opening the folder. “Where shall we start?”

“Why don’t we start with Melody Chapman,” Sylar said, nodding toward Mohinder’s papers. “I know she’s in there. She was the first.”

Mohinder peered up at him through his glasses, eyebrows raised. “The first?”

“The first—casualty,” Sylar said, lips twitching up briefly. He turned his eyes on Mohinder and allowed his mouth to stretch into a full smile. “Her parents had both been killed in the first wave. I found her hiding in a pantry.” Sylar paused—for affect, Mohinder thought—and turned his gaze away, as he remembered. “I made short work of her.”

Mohinder struggled to keep his composure, reached up and rubbed between his eyes. “Why did you—” Mohinder couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.

Sylar glanced back at Mohinder. “Why did I _what_ , Doc?”

Mohinder swallowed his anger and resentment down like a bitter, foul-tasting pill. “Why did you kill her?”

Sylar simply shrugged. “Why did you wear a red tie today as opposed to blue?”

Mohinder shook his head at the absurd line of questioning. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Why do we do anything?”

“I’ll be asking the questions here, Mr. Gray,” Mohinder said, gently but firmly. “Why did you decide to take Melody Chapman’s life?”

Sylar looked down at Mohinder’s papers once more. “Because I wanted to. And I could.” He looked back at Mohinder, expression inscrutable. “Is that what you were hoping to hear, Doc?”

“It is what I was expecting to hear,” Mohinder corrected. He looked down at his documents. Bennet had given to him what the police would allow, which wasn’t much. He was allowed access to photocopies of police reports, a few news stories, and a scant few photographs, and nothing truly graphic or gory was included. The true horror of Sylar’s acts had been concealed from him. The mystery that shrouded Sylar’s heinous crimes made the man sitting across from Mohinder cut all the more imposing a figure.

“Are you going to try and _change_ me, Doc? Make me a better person?” Sylar asked with a sneer. He slouched back in his seat as far as his chains would allow.

“No, Mr. Gray. I cannot change what is already in your nature,” Mohinder said, with quiet, controlled calm. “I can only hope to contain you. So that you do not cause harm to yet another innocent human being.”

Sylar sat upright in his seat and leaned forward, straining against his bonds. His eyes sparked with the promise of danger, and his mouth twisted into a sharp-edged smirk that Mohinder could _feel_. 

“You can’t _contain_ me, Doc,” he said, tone deceptively smooth and gentle. 

Mohinder could feel the teeth of Sylar’s words breaking through his skin, but he refused to show it. “You’ll find I’m full of surprises, Mr. Gray.”

Sylar sat back and smirked. “Likewise.”

-

Mohinder slipped out of the tiny cell and shut the door behind him. Bennet was upon him almost immediately.

“That was brilliant, Suresh! Those are the first words he’s spoken since he came into our custody three weeks ago,” Bennet exclaimed, excitedly.

“What do you think, Dr. Suresh?” Mohinder’s colleague, Dr. McCain, asked.

Mohinder glanced over at her. “I would need more time with him,” he said, and he turned his gaze on Bennet, “but I’m not interested. This was a one-time deal, Bennet.”

Several armed guards marched into the cell and Mohinder tracked them with his eyes, warily. The guards stood watch over Sylar as he was grabbed and dragged roughly from the room.

Sylar focused his dark eyes on Mohinder, as he allowed the guards to pull him along. He parted his lips in a feral grin, all brilliant white teeth.

“Dr. Suresh,” Sylar said, struggling to get closer to Mohinder. A guard yanked him back by the collar of his prison-issue uniform. The chains dug into his ankles, raising angry red welts. “I hope we can do this again sometime.” Sylar peered behind Mohinder, to Dr. McCain, and gave her a wink.

“Get him out of here,” Bennet snapped, motioning frantically to the guards.

Mohinder moved instinctively closer to Dr. McCain, placing himself as a barrier between her and Sylar. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Gray,” he said, coolly.

Sylar began to laugh, eyes creasing at the corners. “I like you, Suresh. I really do.”

“C’mon.” A guard jerked Sylar back and dragged him from the room.

His echoing laughter ricocheted against the walls like bullets.

-

Mohinder sat behind his own desk and poured over the various files and folders pertaining to the man who was once Gabriel Gray. He flipped through page after numbing page detailing his hideous crimes, scanned page after page detailing the terror he wreaked against both the enemy and innocent civilians until his vision began to blur.

> The Boogeyman killed my entire family. He didn’t kill me, though. I was hiding. I’m very good at hiding. I’m the best in my family at playing Hide ’n Seek.
> 
> —Molly Walker, age 9

Mohinder propped his elbows on his desk and rubbed his hands through his hair. His eyes ached from the hours of reading, and a headache was forming at the base of his skull. Someone set a mug of steaming coffee in front of his elbow and he looked up.

Dr. McCain offered him a shy smile and tucked her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. She was an attractive, intriguing woman and maybe in another world, Mohinder would have pursued her. “You haven’t come out of your office in _hours_ , Dr. Suresh. You should take a break.”

Mohinder offered her a grateful smile and wrapped his hands around the coffee mug. “Thank you, Dr. McCain.”

She pulled up a seat across from him and shook her head, still smiling. “Call me Eden, please.”

“Eden it is.” Mohinder smiled and raised the coffee cup to his lips. “I’m sorry you had to see that—display earlier today.”

“Oh, no, don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault, Dr. Suresh. I wanted to be there,” she insisted.

“Look, doctor,” Mohinder said, reaching out and placing a hand over hers on his desk. “If I’m to call you Eden, you are to call me Mohinder. It seems only fair.”

She smiled, flushing prettily, and ducked her head. “All right, then. Fair enough, Mohinder.”

Mohinder withdrew his hand and picked up the mug. “This man has done horrific things,” he said, tapping a finger against Sylar’s thick folder. “I guess the president only started caring when it was no longer enemy combatants he was torturing and mutilating for fun.”

Eden looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. “What exactly did he do to those people?”

Mohinder sighed. “I am being kept in the dark in that respect,” he said, with some regret. “I think Bennet believes he is protecting me by concealing the full truth, as if I’m his little _Clairebear_.”

Eden smiled at Mohinder. “I’m sure Mr. Bennet’s only doing what he thinks is right.”

“I’m sure he is,” Mohnder conceded, making a slight face. He turned the coffee cup slowly in his hand. “I’m not sure I can properly diagnose and treat Mr. Gray without all the information though.”

Eden sat back in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you know why he calls himself Sylar?” she asked.

“I’ve been told that _Sylar_ is a brand of watch, but I’m not aware of its significance to Mr. Gray,” Mohinder said, drumming his fingertips on top of the folder, thoughtful.

Eden reached out and slipped the folder from under Mohinder’s hand. She began to flip through the pages. “God. He killed this poor Walker girl’s entire family.”

“He was too preoccupied with her parents to think to look for her,” Mohinder said, with a slight sigh. “I don’t doubt he would have killed her had he known she was hiding in a box in the attic.”

Eden shook her head. “This is terrible. And yet President Petrelli thinks there may be a chance at redemption?”

Mohinder scowled. “I do not question the president’s judgment. I’m only the Bennet Institute’s errand monkey.”

Eden reached out and slid Mohinder’s hand into hers. “You know you’re much more than that,” she said. “Maybe—maybe interrogating a monster is what will put you and your work on the map, give you nationwide exposure.”

“I’d almost rather not,” Mohinder said, leaving his hand in Eden’s. “That man—the way he looks at me . . .”

“I know, Mohinder,” she said. “He looked at me the same way.”

Mohinder looked up at her. “I suppose he did.” 

-

Mohinder walked in and the door shut behind him with a quiet snick. Sylar sat at the steel table, head bowed. His pale arms were bare, unchained, and Mohinder turned on his heel and marched right back out the door to confront Bennet.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mohinder asked, his voice shaking with anger. “I asked that he be chained at all times.”

“He complained that the chains were hurting him,” Bennet sighed, “so they compromised. Those chains on his ankles are solid, tamper-proof, Mohinder. There’s no way he can slip them.”

Mohinder pursed his lips. “The second he acts improperly toward me, I want guards on his ass. Got it?”

Bennet nodded his assent and Mohinder went back to the cell.

When Mohinder’s quick, angry footsteps began to click across the concrete floor, Sylar looked up and a slow smile spread across his face. He had a fresh bruise ringing one eye, and his lip was split. He was clad in a simple white t-shirt and white scrubs today, as opposed to his usual prison garb.

“What happened to you?” Mohinder took his seat and adjusted his lab coat. It felt silly to wear a lab coat, something he rarely did when meeting with other patients, but Bennet had insisted. He felt it would reinforce certain ideas and behaviors. Mohinder thought he was insane, but kept the opinion to himself.

“Why do you care?” Sylar asked, without malice. He scratched at the inside of his elbow.

“I didn’t say I did,” Mohinder replied. “I was just curious.”

“Some of the other prisoners get— _handsy_ ,” Sylar said, smirking, as if it were a point of pride to be considered desirable by his fellow inmates. “Have to fight ’em off me.”

“I’m sure.” Mohinder barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He clasped his hands in front of him. “I’d like to talk to you about your tour of duty.”

Sylar looked at Mohinder, eyes blank. “Okay. Shoot.” Sylar’s lips twitched up briefly in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smirk.

“What were your experiences like?”

“War is Hell, Doc. Is that what you want me to say?” Sylar placed his hands, palms down, on the table and leaned forward.

“I don’t imagine you believe that, though,” Mohinder said.

“Oh, no, I _do_ believe that,” Sylar said, smiling full-on now. “Just so happens that I _enjoy_ Hell.”

Mohinder chuffed out a small laugh and removed his glasses, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Of course you do.”

“You don’t believe me?” Sylar cocked his head, with a curious expression.

“I think this is an act you’re putting on for my benefit,” Mohinder said. “You know I expect to see a vicious, cold-blooded monster, so you play the part.”

Sylar sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Interesting theory, Doc.”

“It’s more than a theory, Mr. Gray,” Mohinder said. “You’re all about putting on a show. You’re quite the performer.”

Sylar smiled, seemingly pleased. “You’ve caught up on your studies pretty quickly, Doc. Impressive.” He placed his palms flat on the sleek surface, as if to show Mohinder his hand, so to speak.

“I don’t care for your approval, Mr. Gray,” Mohinder replied.

The smile didn’t fade from Sylar’s face at Mohinder’s rebuke. “Why do you insist on calling me Mr. Gray?” Sylar clasped his hands like a prim schoolboy.

“Because Gabriel Gray is your proper name,” Mohinder said, raising his eyes to scan Sylar’s face for a hint of a response. There was none. “Was being Gabriel Gray really so bad?”

Sylar’s expression darkened, heavy brow knitting in indignation. “Yes,” he replied, with a growl. “Next question.”

Mohinder felt like a lion tamer staring into the jaws of a hungry lion. He knew he should retreat, extricate himself from danger, but instead, he soldiered on. “Your father, Samson Gray, sold you to his brother Martin shortly after your birth. Is that correct?”

Sylar frowned deeply. “How did you—”

“That’s not important, Mr. Gray. Answer the question,” Mohinder said.

Sylar narrowed his eyes. “And if I refuse?”

“You will not refuse.”

Sylar let out a harsh, grating laugh. “You sound awfully confident, Doc.”

Mohinder held Sylar’s gaze, refused to look away. “Answer the question, Mr. Gray.”

“No.” Sylar smiled.

“Mr. Gray, you will answer the question. Did your father sell you off or not?”

“Lovely weather we’re having, huh, Doc?” Sylar asked, leaning back and locking his fingers behind his head.

“Mr. Gray, answer the question,” Mohinder said, remaining calm.

“I don’t think I like your line of questioning, Doc,” Sylar said. He raised a hand and wagged a finger in the direction of the people behind the pane of mirrored glass. “Was this your idea, Bennet?” He turned his gaze on Mohinder. “Or was it all yours, Dr. Suresh?” 

“Once you answer the question, we can move on,” Mohinder said.

Sylar glared at him, eyes flashing. Mohinder could see that his arms were taut with tension. He was just barely restraining himself from lashing out, Mohinder realized.

“My biological father sold me off like a piece of property. Are you satisfied, Doc?” Sylar sneered.

“Yes, I am, Mr. Gray.” Mohinder returned his attention to Sylar’s file. “When you were in middle school, you were suspended for threatening a girl in your class. You told her you were going to cut her head open and— _consume_ her brain. In much more colorful language, I assume.”

“I already know all this,” Sylar said, trying his best to sound bored, cavalier.

Mohinder knew it was an act, though. Sylar was rigid with tension and his eyes were agitated, maybe even nervous. Mohinder had knocked him off stride.

“The couple that moved into your childhood home unearthed an old cooler of animal bones,” Mohinder continued, flipping a page. “Squirrels, raccoons, cats. A small dog. Along with a folder of notes and sketches.” He glanced at Sylar again.

“So?” Sylar shrugged.

“I am trying to get a sense of you, Mr. Gray. Trying to figure out how you work,” Mohinder said, choosing his words carefully.

Sylar looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and—and something else. Something that set Mohinder on edge. 

“I only did it to see how they worked,” Sylar said, softly, leaning forward on his elbows. He locked eyes with Mohinder, pinning him in place like a butterfly.

Mohinder did not like hearing that soft, almost gentle tone to the killer’s voice. It made him sound vulnerable, almost _human_. It did not suit the boogeyman currently taking up space in Mohinder’s head. 

Sylar continued. “I took them apart like—like watches. I merely substituted wheels and cogs for flesh and bone and blood. Unlike my watches, however, I couldn’t put them back together.” Sylar smiled, a fond, distant look flickering behind his eyes.

Mohinder had a sneaking suspicion Sylar was no longer talking about the animals he’d dissected as a teen. He glanced down at the watch encircling his own wrist.

Mohinder raised his head and scrutinized Sylar, pursing his mouth. After a few long seconds of silence, he said, quietly, “I’m afraid our time is up, Mr. Gray.”

-

Mohinder set his plastic lunch tray down and slid into a seat across from Eden. The cafeteria bustled with vibrant, noisy life, a far cry from the cold, clinical austerity of the interrogation room.

“Why do you insist on calling him Mr. Gray?” Eden asked out of the blue, catching Mohinder off guard.

“Who, Sylar?” he asked, ripping open a plastic packet and fishing out a spork and a napkin, as he stalled a bit to allow his mind time to catch up to her question.

“Yeah,” she said.

“ _He_ insists on being referred to as Sylar, so I call him Mr. Gray,” Mohinder said, with a slight shrug. “I thought it might annoy him, but so far, it hasn’t seemed to have had any effect.”

“The last psychiatrist called him Mr. Gray. He ended up having his head slammed into the two-way mirror,” Eden said, opening a pack of oyster crackers. She dumped them into her steaming Styrofoam cup of soup. “He quit the next day, ended up with fifteen stitches and a concussion for his troubles. And after that, Sylar was never left with his wrists unchained.”

“Until me,” Mohinder concluded, shaking his head. He picked up his sandwich and took a bite.

“Until you,” she echoed.

-

“I thought you’d never come.”

Mohinder closed the door to the cell behind him and looked over at Sylar. His wrists were once again left unbound, but his ankles were chained. It was of little comfort, however. Mohinder was certain if Sylar decided he wanted to kill him, nothing—not even chains or a hundred armed guards would deter him.

Mohinder strode over to the table and sat down. “I was running late. Long lunch,” he said, pulling his ever expanding file out of his briefcase. He set it down in front of him and scooted his seat in closer. “Shall we begin?”

Sylar clasped his hands in front of him, putting on the air of a demure schoolboy eager to learn. He flicked a casual smile Mohinder’s way. The way he looked at Mohinder was anything but casual, however. “Yes, let’s.”

Mohinder looked down at his file, forcing Sylar’s keen, disturbing gaze out of his mind. “I’d like talk to you some more about your childhood.”

“You want to find out what turned me into a killer,” Sylar suggested.

“I am interested in your upbringing,” Mohinder said.

Sylar rolled his eyes, as if this was a waste of his time and talents. “I wasn’t molested. Or beaten. Nothing horrible happened to me as a child to warp me and twist me into a killer.” Sylar leaned back as far as he could and slung an arm over the back of his chair. “On the contrary. I had a disappointingly boring, mundane, _ordinary_ childhood.”

“Something happened to you to—” Mohinder began, but Sylar cut him off, suddenly leaning forward, too far into Mohinder’s personal space.

“ _Nothing_ happened to me, Doc,” Sylar said. Mohinder could feel his warm, stale breath on his face. “Sorry to disappoint you. Some killers are born and others made. Guess which group _I_ fall into?”

“I don’t believe that,” Mohinder said. “I don’t think you’re being completely truthful with me.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you, say, my priest molested me when I was a boy? Or that my mother beat me?” Sylar cocked a smirk Mohinder’s way. “You want a point of origin. A sob story.”

“I just want to understand why—”

“That’s all _I_ want, really,” Sylar said, cutting him short. “To understand.”

“You murder indiscriminately,” Mohinder said.

Sylar’s eyes caught sparks. “You’re wrong, doctor. There is a purpose, a _meaning_ to everything I do.”

“You _need_ there to be meaning. Otherwise, you’re no better than an animal that kills because that’s all it knows to do,” Mohinder said.

Sylar slammed his palms on the table with a loud, thunderous crack, and Mohinder jumped back instinctively. “I’m _not_ an animal.”

“You are the lowest form of humanity, preying on those who cannot defend themselves,” Mohinder spat back in disgust.

Everything happened in the blink of an eye: Sylar flew over the table with lightning-quick speed and wrapped his fists in the collar of Mohinder’s shirt. The legs of his chair scraped noisily against the concrete, screeching dissonantly in Mohinder’s ears. The door to the cell opened with a creak and armed guards stepped in.

Sylar jerked him forward violently until the tips of their noses were nearly touching. “They got what they deserved!”

Before he really had a chance to react, before the guards could get their hands on Sylar, Mohinder felt a hand knot in his curls and suddenly the tabletop was rushing up to greet him. 

Mohinder’s forehead met with the cool surface of the table and darkness swallowed him.

-

Mohinder sat in Bennet’s plush armchair and held an ice pack to the rapidly swelling lump on his forehead.

“That will never happen again,” Bennet assured him, as he paced behind his desk. “I promise you, Dr. Suresh. He will never be left unchained while in our custody _ever_ again.”

Mohinder lowered the ice pack and prodded gently at the lump. He sucked in a sharp breath and hissed in pain. “It’s fine, Mr. Bennet. I—I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

“You can’t bail on us _now_!” Bennet cried, stepping around his desk to Mohinder’s side. He put a hand on Mohinder’s shoulder. “We need you, Dr. Suresh. You’re the only one who’s been able to reach Sylar even remotely.”

“I fear for my safety,” Mohinder said, sighing wearily. He pressed the ice pack over the lump on his forehead.

“Like I said, we’ll increase security. He’ll never be let out of our sight, or left unchained. Hell, we’ll even assign security detail to follow you day and night, if it’ll make you feel better. We’ll do _everything_ in our power to protect you,” Bennet promised.

“I think if he truly wants to harm me, he will find a way around the—obstacles you place before him like mere stumbling blocks.” Mohinder sighed again.

Bennet resumed pacing. “We can’t lose you, Suresh.” He paused to look at Mohinder. “I think, in his own sick way, Sylar respects you.”

“He respects me so much he slammed my head into the table and practically gave me a concussion,” Mohinder said, laughing without really feeling it. “I can only hope everyone here respects me as much as he does.”

“Look, give it another week or two,” Bennet pleaded. “If you still feel the same way, I’ll let you walk. No questions asked. And you’ll still receive your full salary. Deal?”

Mohinder looked at Bennet, who had captured him in the spotlight of his hopeful gaze. Everything in Mohinder was telling him to walk away, to cut his ties with the Bennet Institute and with Sylar.

“I’ll stay.” 

Each word, each individual syllable felt like a nail in his coffin.

-

“Didn’t hurt you too badly, did I, Doc?” Sylar asked Mohinder the next time they came face to face, a week later. False, mocking concern wrapped around his words like creeping ivy.

Mohinder touched his fingertips briefly to the slowly fading bruise on his forehead. “No, you didn’t. Your concern touches me deeply, though,” he said, with a sarcastic bite.

Sylar smiled broadly, the corners of it sharp, predatory. “Want me to kiss it better for you, Doc?”

“I’d rather kiss a viper,” Mohinder replied.

Sylar shrugged. “That could be arranged.”

“Let’s get on with it,” Mohinder said, trying to keep his tone brusque, calm. He would not let Sylar see him rattled, or off his game. “You may be relieved to know I won’t be pressing charges against you for assault.”

“How can I _ever_ repay you?” Sylar pressed his hands over his heart in a grotesque caricature of gratitude.

Mohinder refused to look at him. Instead, he focused so hard on his file, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he burned holes in the cover. “Your _gratitude_ —” Mohinder made a face at his file. “—will suffice.”


End file.
